Houses of the Holy
by aerodynamics
Summary: You can be such a selfish little puke at times.


**Author's Note:** Flames are welcome. There's no slash in this little number. Something I just whipped up because, well, I could. So point out mistakes, yadda-ya. You know the routine.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

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"Who's disruptin' anybody?" He's grinning like he's told the funniest joke in the world, clapping Buck on the shoulder so hard you think it might bruise. "The door's open, ain't it?"

You ain't seen him in this foul o' mood since that race Buck tried to fix him last month. Might be smiling, but it's bitter and dangerous as hell, and you already regret coming here.

"Lookit, Buck, he ain't hurtin' nobody." And the grin is gone, scrubbed from his face. "Come on, Johnny."

He grabs your sleeve and hauls you into a cloud of smoke-thickened air. Sneers at you because your jacket is soaked in blood and sweat and all this rain. Around the corner, up the stairs, down the hallway, and you swear there ain't a working light in the whole damn place. You wonder how he sleeps, if he leaves that second-hand lamp on all night, and how he can stand to be consumed in all this dark. So many people, greedy as hell, ready to devour everything that makes him human. Always watching, waiting for some sign that says he bleeds red, the same as anybody else.

You wrinkle your nose; the hallway reeks like weed, booze and puke. Makes your sinuses burn, and you're acutely aware of the pounding between your eyes. The faint smell of hay and wet horse leaks from his room, and you shift nervously, biting at the inside of your mouth.

In all the silence, your mind starts to wander. Through mazes and labyrinths, sharp twists and hard turns, and it all comes to a screeching halt when he swears under his breath. Slinks over to the bed and tells you to close your eyes, but you ignore him. He snatches something off the mattress, and you wonder why he even tries; you've seen the tracks. Not that you'll ever say anything, except, maybe, you'd like to tell him that there ain't no point in hiding it from you, because you ain't a little kid no more.

"Alright," he sighs, "lock the door, huh?"

You move slowly; the real pain is starting to set in. You close the door softly, slide the chain into place and rub your face, careful to manoeuvre around tender flesh and swollen lips.

He sighs again, harsher this time. Comes up behind you and places a hand on your back, and you stiffen, alarms buzzing between your ears. You close your eyes and try to drift into that one bright place inside your mind. The one where you're safe.

"Hey, you're okay," he whispers, peeling off your jacket. "Go grab something outta the closet."

And you do just that as he hangs your coat on the back of the door. All his clothes are at least ten million sizes too big on you, but you ain't about to complain none. Honestly, you don't know why in the hell he's okay with you coming around here like this. Another responsibility he doesn't need, and you feel like a bloody pain in the ass every time he puts you up like this. There are some nights he lets you have the entire bed to yourself, when your head ain't screwed on straight anymore and you're bleeding from places that people just ain't supposed to bleed from. Sleeps on the floor, or that reclining chair he picked up from God knows where. Wakes up some mornings, stiff and sore from being bent in weird places. Your fault, but he ain't never said anything about it before. He won't.

So you'll get out of his hair as soon as you're changed. You fumble with an old shirt of his and a pair of sweats that won't fit you no matter how tightly you tie them, knocking over freshly folded clothes. He snickers and shakes his head, and you tuck your chin to your chest, trying to sink into yourself. You know he'd never lay a hand on you unless you really deserved it, but you're so used to slinking around, calculating how far you have to move to avoid the hurt.

"You mind?"

He's leaning in the frame of the bathroom door, arms folded across his chest, and you can't help but feel like he's scrutinizing you. "Nup."

Curt like always. You swallow as he motions you forward with two fingers, wet cloth clenched in his other hand. Strangling it, and you ease yourself toward him, forcing the cement-like spit out of your throat as he grabs the back of your arm and stands you in front of the sink. You look like you've been chewed up and spat out. Left eye swollen shut, lips busted open, red stain trying to hide in your hairline. He tries not to stare, but his eyes are tracing every single dark spot on your skin, all the purple and black and blue. Hues that mesh together in such a disgusting way that you could throw up if he wasn't right behind you.

You throw the clothes on the counter and turn to face him slowly, keeping your eyes trained on the tops of your shoes. He tilts your head to the side and dabs the cloth against the side of your mouth, and you don't think he's ever learned the meaning of the word 'gentle'. You know he's doing his damnedest, but you hiss through clenched teeth and wish you had the balls to nail your ol' man right good. It ain't anywhere close to fair what he does to you, especially since you go out of your way to keep him happy.

And then there's your mom. She ain't done nothing good for you, even when you were fresh out of the womb. Just sits there and, if she's in a real nasty mood, encourages your dad to take a swing or twenty at you by screaming about all the reasons you deserve to get your ass beat. And maybe in some regard you do deserve it, because you can be such a selfish little puke at times. You've always been grateful for the things they've given you, like the roof over your head and the clothing on your back, and you know you couldn't live without them, but you can't live _with _them, either.

It ain't like they really want you, anyways. You've been told as much too many times to count. And you never used to believe it, but after listening to your ol' lady shriek about what a goddamn mistake you were day in and day out, it's hard not to. Anybody would tell you otherwise, and there are times when you think you might let yourself cave enough to allow them to fill your head with that sort of bull, but all you have to do is think about the venom your mom spits at you, and you know that no matter what anyone says, it ain't gonna ever be enough.

You reach to your side and grab at his wrist, choking out some tight-lipped noise from the back of your throat. "Don't press so hard, huh?"

He pinches the insides of his cheeks between his teeth, looking at you with something that could almost be contempt. But he sets the cloth down and rubs his knuckles against the pale stubble on his jaw, and you think, maybe, his eyes are a little more watery than they ought to be. Red whites that make the melange of blues stand out in ways you never thought was possible. It makes you feel small, insignificant, because while he has something like a year on you, he wears three lifetimes on his face. Self-preserved and hard as hell, and that's exactly how you wish you could be, because he makes it seem like it's so much easier to just not give a shit about anyone other than himself.

"Get changed."

It's more of an order than anything else, so you shuck your jeans and underwear and t-shirt, and you stand there in nothing but your socks, wondering how you can have so much privacy, even with an open door. He doesn't look at you, even after you're decent again, making your way back to the bed. Stretched out, arm dangling off the side, and he looks like he could be sleeping. Already breathing heavily, leaving you to stand there awkwardly, scratching the palm of your hand. Oh, if only you could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, because you really don't need another reason to envy him.

But that makes you wonder why. How could anybody be envious of somebody who can't feel? That doesn't know there's more to life than cheap-trick hookers and by-the-week everything? It doesn't make a lick o' sense. None. And that might not be the life you want, but it sure seems like a life worth living.

"Hey." He lifts his head up and slides over, and your heart jumps into your throat. "C'mere."

You unstick your tongue from the top of your mouth and crawl into bed. The mattress sags under your weight, and you press your nose into the pillow, breathing in for the first time all day. He hovers over you, raised up on his knees, and starts working the knots out of your back. Something about it almost feels unclean, but his hands have been on you so many times, and all they've ever done is help heal broken bones and inset contusions. Things he's said he learned in New York, and you're glad he did. You'd be dead otherwise.

Pressing your face further into the pillow, your mouth almost starts to water it smells so much like him. Not that you're any sort of a queer, you just think it's nice. Comforting. You could use a little of that every once in a blue.

"I'm sorry, you know." You don't know why you say it, other than you feel like you have to apologize for forcing him into this. He doesn't need to be taking care of you; that's what you're supposed to have parents for. "For just showing up and..."

He doesn't say anything. Keeps kneading at all your sore muscles, and you can just imagine how badly he must want to choke you out. He wouldn't, but it ain't like you don't deserve it.

"Knock it off." His tone is flat, cold, forced. "Go home if you don't feel like bein' here no more."

You've never seen something get to him so bad, and if you didn't know any better, you'd almost venture to say that this is hurting him one hell of a lot more than it's hurting you.

And he hasn't even seen the worst of it.


End file.
